


don't get drunk this christmas

by luftballons



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Siblings, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons/pseuds/luftballons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas at home. Connor screws up, Gemma protects him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't get drunk this christmas

Gemma was the smart one. It wasn't just about intelligence - Gemma knew about _success_. She was dating, a young man with connections and decent grades. She didn't think of it in terms of strategy, but it was highly strategic. Even if they didn't end up married, she was showing she knew how to date the right kind of people. She knew how to make her life look right in the eyes of the elites of her college and the upper-middle-class society of home. And she made it look easy – maybe that was the worst part. Juggling school and family and a boyfriend and excelling, like it wasn't a difficult thing to do. As if she didn't have to worry about any of it.

Connor knows better, but he's staring at her wistfully from across the room as she makes easy conversation with one of their mom's friend's daughters. They're laughing about school and sports or something, and he's poking at cheese puffs in a bowl. He wishes he had her ease in life. He acted like nothing phased him, too, but with a biting sarcastic irony which he used it to hide the fact he had no idea how to actually be cool. He didn't have the same grace, the same finesse as she did. Although he would never admit it to her, he admired her for it.

She spots him from across the room and smiles at him. 'Later,' she mouths, the smile becoming somewhat apologetic. They hadn't been home for Thanksgiving this year. He hadn't seen her since the end of the summer. Deep down, he's glad to know she still wants to spend time with her little brother.

\- - -

The kitchen is a mess. Their mom is bustling back and forth and he keeps offering to help, but she doesn't take him up on it. It's too much to figure out what to tell him to do, she says. So he finally stops asking. He's stalling, anyway. People are slowly making their way to the dinner table and he's dragging his feet, looking for one more thing to take care of, one more pointless errand to prolong his time away from taking a seat between his football star of a cousin (fullride scholarship to notre dame), and Aunt Ebby (too many cats, but for a woman her age and single can you blame her?), unsure of which family member is going to provide more "entertainment" through dinner.

Gemma slips in to steal some whipped cream from the bowl next to the pies. She'd worked all afternoon making it, so maybe she was allowed. He quirks an eyebrow at her like he's caught her in a terrible act. She shrugs noncommittally and pretends not to notice when he empties the jäger miniature into his cup of water.

“Connor....,” She starts, almost nonchalantly. Almost as if she just wants to ask how school has been. But from the other room their mom is calling, “Shall we say grace?” trying to corral all the guests in for supper. Connor takes a swig from his cup and shrugs in apology. Gemma sighs, following him into the dining room. She'd ask him later.

\- - -

“Come on, it's _Christmas_ ,” Connor argues, reaching once again for the spiked eggnog on the counter. His mom looks at the drink and then back at Connor and gives in. What was one drink going to do? She doesn't know about the jäger, or the wine he'd conned someone into earlier. She either doesn't smell it on his breath or just isn't paying attention. She slides the eggnog over to him and heads off to finish getting dishes cleaned up from the table. Asking the guests for the hundredth time if they really liked the dinner and whether or not they wanted more pie.

Gemma is not so gullible. She corners him on his way to the living room, and he swears she comes out of nowhere with some kind of sixth sense about how to find him. “Why do you think this is a good idea?” She hisses out under her breath. She's equal parts concerned and angry, and he can see it warring on her face. She's a good person. She's tired of seeing him be such a fuck up.

Connor laughs, proud of how easy it sounds. “I'm fine, Gemma,” each word is enunciated so well it almost sounds practiced, like he's trying not to sound drunk. Her frown deepens.

“You're a lightweight, I hope you know that.” Connor doesn't warrant it with a reply, slipping past her and into the room proper. She could hardly lecture him in front of the gathered family.

\- - -

Her boyfriend's name is John. Or maybe it's Chris. Or Patrick? He's majoring in physics and music. This is relevant because he plays the trumpet. Which only matters because it's all too easy to imagine how skilled he is with his mouth, and his tongue.

Admittedly, he's been staring at JohnChrisPatrick for most of the night by this point. Pretending to listen as he explains what school life is like, what his family life is like. Gemma isn't listening, Gemma is watching Connor watch her boyfriend. She's good at hiding the way she looks like she might strangle him if he continues to make poor decisions tonight. She offers him coffee with the sweetest Midwestern housewife tone she can possibly muster. When he declines, she bites back the comment that it would sober him up.

JohnChrisPatrick excuses himself when he gets to the end whatever story he's been telling. Connor claims to go looking for that coffee he turned down.

\- - -

“I'm eighteen, actually,” is the lie that makes up the latest in this string of bad decisions. He's too drunk to care at this point. They can both hear people laughing downstairs, and he thinks he can almost make out Gemma's barely-strained voice mixed in the din as she continues to pretend like everything is alright. Maybe he's just imagining that from the guilt. But he grabs JohnChrisPatrick's hand and walks backwards towards his bedroom. This man who is someone else's boyfriend follows him. This isn't the first time this has happened. It won't be the last.

That he doesn't trip over himself before getting into bed is a miracle. His fingers fumble with buttons and zippers but he's direct and he knows what he wants. He wants lips and tongues on flesh, fingers grasping and groping, warmth moving between them. He laughs when he tastes the eggnog on the other man's lips. He's tipsy too, he can tell. Connor licks his way into his mouth and presses his body up against him. He doesn't really need words to articulate what he wants.

\- - -

The truth is he's too blissed out to notice when Gemma opens the door, but JohnPatrickChris notices, pulling out and grabbing blankets to cover them so quickly that Connor hisses in pain from the sensation.

“Get out,” Gemma looks like she could murder PatrickJohnChris. She doesn't even look at Connor. “Get some clothes and get the hell out of my house.” But she's a saint - she's already called a taxi, and it's already on its way. She watches as her boyfriend (were they exes, now?) sloppily pulls on clothes. She stares him down like that's his penance, but she doesn't look at Connor until he's gone.

“I _warned_ you,” she says. There's a pleading note to her tone he doesn't know what to make of. She doesn't just sound angry, which she has every right to be. She's disappointed. She's scared. Connor frowns. “Dad is going to be home from his business trip any moment now, god, you're such a moron.” She starts looking around for whatever discarded pieces of his clothing she can find, throwing them at him. “You need to get in a shower, Connor, I'm serious, he can't see you like this.”

Unsure of what to say, he watches her as she paces around the room, lamely picking at the blanket covering him. He feels like he should feel more guilty. He does feel guilty? He doesn't know. In his indecision, she grabs his arm and tugs him towards the bathroom, all but shoving him in the shower. When she turns it on it's freezing. That should do the trick.

\- - -

Gemma was the smart one. They're playing stratego on the floor of the living room. His hair is dry and his clothes are straightened. People ask what happened to John, but she tells them simply that he'd gotten a call and had to go home early. The rest of the family is in the other room sipping aperitifs. They are separated from the noise and the din and the prying questions. She is spared the embarrassment of wondering if people were staring because they had heard her idiot kid brother crying out as loudly as she had. She makes it look easy. Her grace and finesse shows as she moves her pieces across the board. She clears her throat, and prompts him that it's his turn.

The door opens. As predicted, their father, home from a business trip. He smiles at both of them, asking what they're up to. He asks after John. Satisfied with the answers he gets, he heads off to join the party. When she hears his voice safely in the other room, Gemma breathes out a sigh of relief. And then she takes Connor's flag.

“I'm tired of cleaning up your messes,” she says, placing the captured piece into the box. But after avoiding what could have otherwise been a disaster, she doesn’t have the heart to have an edge to her voice. She knew how to make their lives look right, and she successfully avoided a crisis. He'd never admit it, but he owes her more than he can possibly repay.


End file.
